


Swallowed In The Sea

by Meowbowwow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Imagery, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, creative writing, dealing with depression, no dialogues, tw:depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:10:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meowbowwow/pseuds/Meowbowwow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is depressed. No, Sherlock is blackness itself and the game of tiptoeing<br/>around each other that he and John have been playing comes to an end. This is a<br/>short piece on depression and how he deals with the chaos in his head, and<br/>comfort. Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swallowed In The Sea

The sky is Sherlock's skin stretched taut and the grey edges are his eyes that are neither sharp nor blazing, they are the grey of death, of smoke gone stale in a haze of clouds, they are so pale that perhaps, sorrow has broken him down beyond tears. The sky is Sherlock, always. It rains when he wants it to, it thunders when he runs past cars and snakes through the traffic like a shadow forlorn and the sun yawns in bliss when he extends the entire length of his body on the couch and stretches like a cat.

 

John feels it before it happens. He checks his phone, twiddles with it throughout the day and nothing. No message, no complaints of boredom. Absolutely nothing. Silence. Vile irksome silence.

 

They have become the best of friends and yet, something between them has always simmered close to the surface, waiting to burst and spill all over, protect as much as burn, heal as much as ache. It has almost become a game, the small touches stolen are little victories that keep them both going. John doesn't even remember when he stopped dating women and instead, started looking forward to spending his evenings lazing on the couch, waiting for Sherlock to stretch his feet and bury his toes under his thighs, wriggle them for a second before realising what he's doing and then feel him freeze into silence but not withdraw them. John has spent evenings counting down the seconds and minutes it takes for Sherlock to relax again, for his eye to acknowledge that it was him who pinched the bubble that day. And if Sherlock notices John glancing at him every once in a while when an explosion on the screen glazes their faces and burns in the cold darkness, he doesn't say anything. If John notices Sherlock's lip quirk up in a genuine, almost shy smile when he does that, he doesn't mention it.

 

And so it has been going on, the tugging at invisible threads and the limits tested every moment. The air around them reeks of anticipation and the high they both get from it is mind numbing. It knocks every lesser thing out of its path, it makes breathing a chore and a crime that breaks the careful stillness they work so hard to maintain. It's like waiting for your prey, watching him ease into the surrounding, getting him so comfortable that he almost melts into the background and becomes a part of it. Who would break it to the prey that this is a predator's lair it has wandered in? They look forward to the moment as much as they dread it.

 

But today is not the day of feigned touches and bluffed calm. Today, John enters the flat and feels not a rush of adrenaline but an ache that settles on his chest and straddles him as he walks. Sherlock is sitting on the couch with his head in his hands, his fingers tug at his strands and twist the follicles in a way John knows pains him, he finds a particular spot and almost gasps in sheer pain. John sits on his chair but he feels like a ghost, witnessing a terrible death of its own, detached but hurting, clawing at everything around him and not finding a foothold, falling, falling, falling.

 

Sherlock's hands clutch around a pencil, his knuckles shine ivory against the yellow stub of lead as he folds the newspaper in half and settles his hand atop it. For a second, John watches the muscles and the bones twitch in anticipation, an addict's last fight, dying breaths of a moth fluttering too close to the fire. John waits with an almost indulgent passion as he watches it break, feels the sinews give up and relax as Sherlock starts drawing random figures on the paper, not looking, just filling up the empty spaces. He draws an intricate mehendi design John recognises from a dead girl's feet, a newly wed bride from India. And Sherlock draws it out of memory, not pausing to check the detailing but getting all the curves of the peacock's plumage perfect without even halting to breathe. He finishes them, the entire newspaper is mottled with curves and dots, the plumage spread majestically in the centre with strong powerful edges. And then he starts filling them up, starting from the middle, going delicately at first, the pencil held gently in the beginning. Soon, it dissolves, the last ounce of control breaks and falls on the ground with a crash louder than silence itself and John groans as he feels the shards slip under his own skin, settle there and make themselves home. He starts filling up the empty spaces with vehemence and urgency, John can see the nerves strain on his neck as he doesn't give in to pain and colours the entire design in carbon grey, darker than his eyes, much much darker, almost hurting John's vision.

 

The moment ends, almost jarring, lacking all the grace and ache of the previous moments. It ends disappointingly as every inch of paper is covered, none left, nothing. And John ends too, the shards sink deeper, dissolving in wisps of nothingness. He doesn't know when he buried his head in his hands, when his eyes started stinging, when helplessness became such a vicious monster. He doesn't know when Sherlock got up and became a shadow by the window, his violin tucked under his chin, a beautiful dirge that seems to cut through every cloud over them and make them rain. His body shudders every time he lashes the bow against the strings, it's cathartic for him but he has never been in more pain before. It's like a eulogy worshipping the extinction of its subject's soul, it makes the walls shiver and John feels goosebumps rise on his thighs.

 

Sherlock is playing hard, his arms moving with graceful urgency, notes hit impeccably, perfection and war. The music seems to reach crescendo, John realises that he has been holding his breath and releases it audibly but it is lost in the build up of the chaos that is Sherlock that day,it is not even the sound of a pin dropping when a storm rages on his bow and annihilates everything in its wake. He realises another thing - that this shall never culminate, that it will start again, it would evolve into something darker and more terrible. And that's why he gets up and closes the distance between them.

 

It is so tender that the kiss on the back of Sherlock's neck could have been the notes of his piece slipping over his shoulder blades and he is close to dismissing it when there's another one, the lips latch onto the skin for a nanosecond longer and then, a hand is slowly putting his violin away and rubbing gentle circles on his shoulders as he registers the sickening ache in his limbs. Time is going so slow that its groans can be heard inside his skull but then the lips travel behind his neck and he loses reality in glorious black ribbons that seem to pour out of his eyes, blurring his vision. There are lips wedged perfectly between his own and they seem like an extension of his body, an extension of his own mind as they move exactly as he wants to, brushing with impatience but moaning without abandon, giving and disarranging the anatomy of his thoughts. And then there is the thudding of his heart, it is full of undefiled joy that Sherlock never believed he could feel.

 

John pulls him closer to himself, his pudge fits against the hollow of Sherlock's middle as if they had been chopped from the same tree. They fall gently on the couch, Sherlock on top of John and a side of his face wet, held close to John. And whatever it was, black, brooding and menacing, tries to return, fights hard to regain control but John has his arms around Sherlock and his curly head under his chin as he kisses the top sweetly and Sherlock curls closer into the warmth and everything sighs into peace.

 

The tears dry and leave behind invisible tracks and if John wakes up to find their positions reversed, long arms holding him close to a thudding heart, he doesn't say anything. If Sherlock kisses him again on waking up, just to make sure that it was all real, he doesn't mention it. Now golden white and musky orange around the edges, the sky seems to find comfort in its imperfections. For now, there are no storms to worry about.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Coldplay's song of the same name. 
> 
> Please let me know if you find any errors or typos and I'll be more than happy to fix them. 
> 
> xoxo  
> Meow


End file.
